Chapter 1

A/N: This is set in a slight AU, in which the KGB espionage efforts were a complete success and there was no decisive first strike by NATO against Warsaw Pact airpower. The war thus begins with Warsaw Pact forces holding the initiative.

No one spoke as the Tupolev Tu-134 made its takeoff run; every man in every seat was pushed back by the firm-yet-invisible hand of acceleration. The airliner was almost new, painted in the colours of Interflug, the state airline of the German Democratic Republic- commonly known to citizens of the NATO countries as East Germany. It was packed tight, every seat occupied as it raised its landing gear and climbed into the sky.

Normally, seating was actually fairly comfortable with reasonable leg-room, but the Tupolev's passengers today were loaded down with over 50 pounds of gear per man. Each passenger was sitting upright, wedged in between his own seat and the one ahead. The men were unable to relax anyway; there was too much happening. Hearts were racing in every man aboard the Tupolev airliner, from the Luftstreitkräfte der NVA pilots who'd trained just for this occasion, ready to 'borrow' the airliner from Interflug in a time of war, to the three full platoons of paratroopers they were carrying into action.

It was early March 13, 1986, several hours before dawn, and the Luftsturmregiment 40 Willi Sänger was going to war for the first time in history. Trained both as helicopter air assault infantry and as conventional paratroopers, the soldiers of the 40th were the finest in the entire National People's Army. Each man had enough training to be called not just an elite paratrooper, but an entry-level commando. Specifically trained to go where no other unit in the DDR's military could, and do things lesser men would not dare, the paratroopers of LStR 40 were the perfect choice for any manner of diversionary, sabotage, first-strike, or seize-and-hold actions.

Several rows back from the front, 22-year-old Hans Kerner sat as still and silent as the rest, keeping a tight hold on his MPi-AKS-74N assault rifle, hanging from its gray fabric sling around his neck. Occasionally, the brown-haired corporal would check his jump gear, in particular his RPG-7D, a special version of the standard Warsaw Pact anti-tank weapon that broke in two so paratroops could more easily jump with it. Hans was one of several men in the company entrusted with the unit's anti-tank weapons, and with all the tanks possessed by NATO every rocket was sure to be needed before long. Hans was seated close beside Wilhelm Forst, Dietrich Schäfer, Martin Kranz and Günther Vollmer, the four other paratroopers assigned to him in two two-man fire teams. When one of them caught his eye, he'd give them a nod, a smile or a wink, doing his best to appear at ease, even excited.

It was best not to advertise that he was scared. All of them were, nobody was going to fool anybody else; but the ones with rank had to try. They had to.

XX

Ever since he had seen them on parade, back when he was just a little boy in the FDJ, the Free German Youth, Hans Kerner had wanted to be one of this elite group of soldiers. Their bright red berets were unique, immediately identifying them in an entire column of troops in dress uniform as the best in the business. They could run faster and farther, fight harder than anyone Hans had ever seen. They were the very image of physical fitness, and accepted only the best and toughest.

It had taken every ounce of Hans' strength, both mentally and physically, just to pass the initial entrance exams. They'd questioned everything about him, practically back to the day he was born, when Hans had first interviewed with two officers and a sergeant major for admission to initial entry training for LStR 40 Willi Sänger. Of all the questions, though, one had immediately hit Hans closest to home. In 1978, his father had fled to West Germany, leaving his family behind.

In the DDR, the Ministerium für Staatssicherheit (Ministry for State Security), commonly referred to as the Stasi, kept track of everyone who'd had any relatives or even close friends make a run for the West. Having any relative defect was bad enough, but to have your own father be the one was damning. Hans had a flawless record; excellent marks in school and in the Army. He was a dedicated socialist, a devout reader of Engels, Marx and Lenin, and was a fanatical runner and football player. Only that, combined with his mother's tireless dedication as a schoolteacher and SED member, was enough to convince the officers. Hans had told them everything, and spoke honestly of his shame and anger at his father's abandonment of both his family and his country.

Alex, on the other hand, had begun to become a political activist. Not long after Hans had made it through all the training and been admitted to the 40th, Alex had drifted into pro-democratic idealism. He'd been arrested at a mass protest against the government of Erich Honecker last fall, and Hans, who had been trying to use his own standing in the SED to cover for him, had exploded. After asking a personal favor of the Minister for Culture, Bruno Hempf, who had taken a liking to Hans when they'd spoken briefly at an official government visit to LStR 40's home base, Hans had gotten his brother sprung from jail and immediately laid into him as they drove home in Hans' Trabant.

"I've had it!" Hans had yelled. He'd gestured with one hand, pointing at the beautiful black eye and generally battered look Alex had acquired. "Look at yourself! How is it that you've messed everything up?!"

Not even pausing for breath, Hans vented years' worth of frustration, anger over having to always protect his twin brother from his own politics. "Now, I've always stayed out of your business, haven't ? I was hoping you'd grow up, Alex, that you'd mature a bit! But I get the feeling that's not happening, Alex. I got an 'interview' with a Stasi colonel today! He wanted to know as much about me as he wanted to know about you! I'm under direct investigation! So now, you're messing with MY JOB! MY LIFE!"

The minute Hans did pause for breath, Alex was shooting back. The two of them had argued bitterly, but Hans put his foot down. They would drive one of two places before he'd even consider going home. One was a selection center for the Volksmarine, the People's Navy. When Alex immediately began to refuse, Hans calmly outlined the other- the Stasi holding cell Alex had only just been freed from.

"It's not me, Alex. I didn't decide on that option. That's what the Stasi told me themselves." He left his voice soften. "Alex, just join me in the military. Do a couple years in the Volksmarine and get the Stasi off our backs. It's not as bad as you think. You still have a way out of this. Take it."

That had decided it. The two of them had gradually calmed down, but there was a definite stiff, awkward manner about the twin Kerner brothers as they had parted when Alex had gone off to basic naval infantry training near Rostock. Hans had kept tabs on him, and to his surprise Alex had not deserted; he'd stayed and completed his training, getting assigned to the Koni-class frigate Rostock as a signalman.

A join force of Soviet Navy and Volksmarine ships, troops and air units had assaulted the Baltic coast of West Germany yesterday, on March 12, 1986. The Rostock, part of 1st Flotilla, was unquestionably helping provide naval gunfire support for the landing forces- as well as working with the rest of the fleet to ensure no interference with the invasion came by sea.

It was a safe enough assignment, signalman on a frigate amid a fleet of friendly warships, in a war going (so far) completely the DDR's way- but there were safer, too. As proud as Hans was to see his brother take on some responsibility and serve in the People's Navy in wartime, he secretly wished Hans had been given comfortable shore duty- like being in the galley or maintenance staff of the Naval Officers Academy "Karl Liebknecht". That way, Alex could serve out his time in a place where Hans would not have to worry about him at all. But the way things were, with Alex on the Rostock, anything could happen. The ship could get hit- and Hans could do nothing, could not be there to help, if that happened.

It felt awful. Hans was resolved to see this through, and he was proud to be beginning the liberation of capitalist-occupied West Germany with the brave comrades in his unit. But part of him couldn't help it, couldn't help worrying about his brother. All he could do was hope for the best, wish his brother good luck- the same as Alex was doubtless doing for him.

XX

Hans had been unable to sit still since he'd learned of the war's start a month ago. Training had intensified a thousand fold. Some units began practicing only air assault tactics and deployment, while others just did practice parachute jumps. This was it, and everyone knew it. When the Soviet Northern Fleet attacked that NATO convoy as it headed for Europe across the Atlantic, enforcing the blockade Soviet Premier Vladimir Soshkin had declared was in place- there was no mistaking what was happening. It was the ultimate test, the day for which every good comrade in the armed forces of the Warsaw Pact had prepared. World War III.

The Tupolev's lit interior was silent, save for the steady hum of the jet engines. The enlisted men, the noncoms, the handful of officers- nobody had much to say.

It was brilliant, truly, how well the socialist nations of Europe had come together when this war began in February. The Romanians, Polish, Bulgarians, Hungarians, Soviets, East Germans- every division and every brigade was being mobilized. Workers turned out for extra shifts at factories essential to the war effort. The outcry was clear- the capitalist dictators and warmongers have oppressed the working man long enough!

With the landings on the West German Baltic coast, huge numbers of NATO troops once committed to squaring off at the inner German border now were being thrown north to hold the line. The fighting was hard, but all the reports said that East German and Soviet forces were pushing inland, making progress, and doing so with minimal casualties. Now, with NATO distracted by a first strike where it had been least expected, the one they had been anticipating had come.

I wonder when they'll wake up, Hans thought, knowing that by now they must surely have crossed over into West German airspace. Flights between the DDR and BRD were so rare they were practically nonexistent, and surely several airliners, all owned by the East German state, flying straight over the border into West Germany would get somebody's attention.

Had they used military aircraft, the Americans and their West German lackies would probably have worked up the nerve to open fire by now. But so far, their luck had held. The "harmless civilian" look of even an East German airliner was doing its job.

Then the lights shut off.

The power came on, just for the lights lining the center aisle, after a moment. Near an exit door just aft of the cockpit, Hauptmann Feiertag, the company commander, stood up and faced the rows of tense, silent paratroopers.

"Stand up!" Feiertag called.

As one, the paratroopers of Company A stood, needing only a few moments to move out into the center aisle and line up.

"Check equipment!"

At that command, each and every man standing in the center aisle began running his hands over his own gear, then checking the parachute and reserve parachute of the man in front of him. In moments, calls began to ring out, running from the very back of the line to the front.

"Ninety! All is good, Herr Hauptmann!"

"Eighty-nine! All is good, Herr Hauptmann!"

The shouts went quickly in order, each man calling out his number, going forward to the front of the airliner. Hans shouted his number with all the rest, and was proud to hear Forst, Schäfer, Kranz and Vollmer all sounded as ready as they claimed.

"Ready! Wait for the signal!" Hauptmann Feiertag yelled, having to shout over the wind now as he swung the door open. Bracing, near the door, the officer turned and looked expectantly toward the open door of the cockpit.

A few moments later, an Air Force major appeared in the doorway, giving Feiertag the thumbs-up.

Turning to his men, Feiertag straightened up, raising his voice. Hans felt his pulse quicken, racing faster still. No more practice, no more training jumps. No more war games or field exercises. This was the real thing.

This was it.

"Men," Feiertag yelled, "Whatever the task, who can do it?"

"Nobody but us!" the men shouted, fiercely proud of their motto, which was shared with their socialist brothers-in-arms, the Soviet Airborne Troops.

Without any further ado, the captain pointed to the first man in line. "Go!"

The line moved quickly, each trooper barely pausing a moment at the door before jumping out. Hans reached it sooner than he'd expected. Without a moment's hesitation, he bent his knees slightly, tensed, and jumped out the door.

Falling rapidly away from the speeding airliner, Hans once again felt the peculiar, near-weightless sensation of freefall. Here he was, thousands of feet above the earth, plummeting towards it with nothing between but time. Hans had jumped from a perfectly-functioning aircraft intentionally, doing so with every intention of fighting his nation's enemies with everything he had once he hit the ground. It was a distinctly unnatural act, one far outside any instincts mankind had been given. And it was what Hans Kerner had been born to do.

XX

To ensure that parachute infantry units could penetrate into enemy airspace and jump undetected, the Soviet Union had instructed the Red Army and its allies in Eastern Europe to create special airborne troops, elite even within their respective nations' parachute infantry, who would be able to jump from the highest possible heights and still land accurately within the target area. In the NATO countries, they were called "HALO infantry", for high-altitude, low opening. Instead of the usual 3-4 seconds until you deployed your chute after exiting the aircraft, you would freefall for better than half a minute, or perhaps more, depending on what altitude your jump had been at.

Like the others around him, Hans oriented himself quickly as he fell, straightening out and spreading his arms and legs as if he were skydiving. He could see the mostly-dark West German countryside unfolding below him for miles. When his mental count reached the appropriate number, Hans knew he had fallen far enough. He hit his cord, and abruptly reverted back to the feet-first position as his parachute blossomed out and jerked him upright in the sky.

The ground was coming up quickly now; instructions were to steer for any clear, open landing areas- a farmer's field, like the one not far off, was perfect. Forests and even individual trees were to be avoided at all costs, as getting stuck in one of those could be extremely difficult and time-consuming to get out of.

Leaning and steering with his chute as best he could, Hans felt a small rush of relief as he saw he was indeed going to make it down in the field. Looking around him, he could see well over two dozen other parachutes, some already coming down to earth ahead of him. Quickly returning to his own landing, Hans felt nervousness, fear- a great deal of it- returning in a hurry. Even if everything went right up to this moment, it would mean nothing if your landing went wrong. A dead or crippled paratrooper was no use to his unit.

The critical moment having arrived, Hans let his knees buckle as his boots first touched the ground. He tucked himself in and started to roll forward, letting the flexible joints in his knees safely absorb much of the impact. Just as he began to think he'd pulled it off perfectly, the steady crosswind that had been blowing across this open field picked up significantly. Unable to detach his parachute quickly enough, Hans was dragged forward by it. Cursing as he fought with the clasps, Hans got them to release at exactly the wrong time. The chute let go and flew away into the wind, and with nothing holding him up now, Hans fell. He slammed into the ground, helmet-first, and blacked out.

XX

"Take it easy, Herr Unteroffizier," Kranz said, boyish face grinning under his Soviet-style paratrooper helmet. He held out a hand, gently but firmly stopping Hans from sitting all the way up.

"What happened?" Hans shook his head, trying to remember. His jump, the descent- it had all gone just as it should have.

"The landing, Hans," Kranz said, lowering his voice a little. "You got dragged forward by your chute and you got knocked out."

Knocked out by my own parachute on the second night my country goes to war, Hans thought, immediately ashamed of himself. Outstanding.

Looking around, Hans saw the rest of his team gathered around him; the last parachutes looked to be coming down, but they were miles off. Probably another unit, another objective.

Getting up, Hans took his MPiK's sling off from around his neck, pushing the fire selection lever down to the first setting past safety, full automatic. Quickly gaining his wits again, he looked to Kranz. "How long was I out?"

"About five minutes. Not very long."

Five minutes? Had the Wessis or the Amis been ready at all, had they been right here in the area, they could've killed everyone in Hans' fire team and taken him prisoner.

"Inexcusable," Hans said, admitting some of his shame. He looked at his soldiers, all of them young, highly trained, and deeply patriotic just as he was. "Thank you. I won't mess up like that again." And to begin living up to that promise, Hans stood, pointing towards the road up ahead, where off to the side of a bridge crossing some river, paratroopers were steadily gathering. It was only a two-lane road, and only a two-lane bridge, but it spanned a river big enough that even here, out in the countryside of West Germany, it could mean a lot to the right people.

It had to be why Company A had jumped where it did.

"Come on," Hans said, moving towards them. He nodded towards his guys, though, the ones who'd looked out for him, rescued him from lying out in that field when he'd botched his landing. "Nobody But Us, right?"

"Nobody," Kranz, Schäfer, Forst and Vollmer all echoed quietly. Just before they began to come into hearing range of the gathering paratroopers, who already were establishing perimeter guards and putting together their antitank and radio equipment, Kranz added with his usual impish grin, "Because nobody else wants to go!"

"Quiet, Kranz," Hans and the rest of the fire team hissed all at once, but they'd already reached the first guard, who didn't even bother raising his MPi-AKS-74N. It was Hauptfeldwebel Luther Brandt, father figure to many of the young paratroopers, their counselor and mentor- and that included the younger officers, too.

The Americans, with their odd and individualistic way of doing things, would have called Luther Brand a 'First Sergeant'. But in all the great armies of Europe- and the National People's Army definitely deserved inclusion there!- there was no such thing. There was only the sergeant major, from the company upwards.

The veteran NCO peered out at the fire team coming out of the dark. "Is Kranz telling his jokes again, Corporal Kerner?"

Hans blushed; one of these days, if he told the wrong joke at the wrong time and the wrong person heard it, Martin Kranz was going to get black-marked by the Stasi. It was a sad fact of life in the DDR that humor and pranks often went unappreciated, especially by the state. But you were relatively safe in the paratroopers, who though known for fierce patriotism, were also known for having little use for rear-echelon bureaucrats and policemen.

But Hans just answered, "Yes, Sergeant Major, he is."

"Good," Brandt answered simply- he often spoke as if each word cost him a Mark. "Kranz, just stow it if the Stasi shows up, will you?"

"Yes, Sergeant Major," the kid of the unit- heck, probably the kid of the regiment at all of 17- answered obediently. "As my Sergeant Major orders, I will do it."

Hans was inwardly horrified- Brandt was not a man to be trifled with- but he was apparently feeling indulgent today. He laughed, waving them forward, but suddenly called them back. "Kerner, post one of your men out here- I need to be with Senior Lieutenant Neumann when he gives the briefing."

"Forst, stay here," Hans decided. "Watch for anyone approaching from the direction we came."

"Understood," Forst said, nodding and shouldering his RPD, a light machine gun that mounted a heavy drum magazine. Wilhelm Forst, much the opposite of Kranz, was dedicated and proficient, but shy of speech, always calm and speaking in a steady, controlled tone no matter what was happening. Forst was honest and hardworking, and throughout his platoon and Company A he was the subject of immense respect and trust.

"Senior Lieutenant Neumann?" Hans asked, allowing himself to show some of his concern as they moved towards the gathered paratroopers, crouched or kneeling in front of one other, who was clearly an officer.

"The Hauptmann is still unaccounted for," Brandt said, adding nothing else. It was all obvious enough, really. If Captain Feiertag was missing, captured, or dead, that meant the next highest-ranking, next-most-experienced officer would take command of his company until he showed up. If he didn't, that meant Luther Neumann had just gained his first company-level command.

It wasn't good that Captain Feiertag was missing, but it went without saying that his company would carry on regardless. As Hans and three of his men took their places at the gathering, Hans working on fitting the two pieces of his RPG-7D together, it became apparent other men were missing as well. Crosswinds may have interfered, parachutes may have failed, unlikely as that was. Or the Luftstreitkräfte may have even made mistakes about when to signal for the jumps to begin- reading one digit wrong on a map could mean a difference of as much as a mile.

Hans sighed inwardly, scared out of his wits yet remarkably calm, in control of himself. He was miles behind the border, surrounded by enemy territory. Like the rest of these men, he had been called upon by the DDR's leadership to go where none of the NVA's other soldiers even could. To dare things that ordinary soldiers would and could not. Things always went wrong when a unit went into real action for the first time, had to apply all at once everything it had learned and practiced in training.

As Senior Lieutenant Neumann got a rapid count of heads, weapons and notable pieces of gear, it became apparent that more men than just the Captain were missing. They had as many as sixty or seventy men, a few more trickling in, but some were still unaccounted for. Heavy weapons, like RPD's or RPG-7's, had been lost. Two men had sprained ankles. And so on.

But as the new, though hopefully temporary, company commander decided to begin his briefing, Hans leaned his RPG-7D back against his shoulder and listened. So far, some things had gone right, some had gone wrong. They were behind enemy lines, encircled by a country filled with unfriendly soldiers and civilians. It wasn't so bad, though. For paratroopers in wartime, that was how it was supposed to be.

XX

Senior Lieutenant Neumann kept his voice low, crouching in front of the men. Already there was gunfire in the distance, miles off. The high whine of jet engines, the thunder of artillery.

"This bridge may not look special," Neumann began, gesturing to the brick, asphalt-paved structure spanning the river behind him. "But it's a key crossing point for this river. To the east, the our own 7th Panzer Division and the Soviet 1st Guards Panzer Division are advancing across the BRD's border." He paused, looking around. "Our orders are simple. Hold this bridge until lead elements of those divisions can reach us. If we have to, we will detonate the charges the pioneer boys are rigging and drop this bridge into the river. The Americans and West Germans need this bridge as much as we do."

"The intelligence we have on this area indicates most of its forces have been moved north to counter the landings by the Soviet Navy and the Volksmarine. But they haven't moved everything. From what we know, the first ones who will try taking this bridge back from us will probably be Americans- they have the most forces in this area."

The senior lieutenant paused again, making eye contact with each and every one of his assembled men. Though barely any older than Hans Kerner was- than many of the enlisted men were- Luther Neumann was a good officer, one who cared a great deal about his men. He wanted to make sure they not only understood the mission, the situation in which it was happening, and never sent anyone where he wouldn't go himself.

"Additional intelligence states the Amis and Wessis likely have armored forces in the area. Until our own panzers break through to us, we'll have to make do with grenades and RPG's. Other than that, remember what's going on. We've been given a job that is going to make a lot of difference for the regular ground troops. Our panzers, and the Soviets', need this bridge to keep advancing fast, keep the Amis and the Wessis on the run. When they come to try to take this bridge back from us, let's send them packing. Let's show them what paratroopers of the DDR can do."

Hungry growls, nods and grins, low sounds of enthusiasm, came from every one of the gathered men. From the sound, even subdued as it had to be in case the enemy was nearby, these 60 men had enough fight in them to march on Paris all by themselves.

If all went well here, that might well be where the 40th jumped next.

A/N: The quote from the referenced conversation in which Hans Kerner yells at his brother Alex borrows heavily from when Commander Stone Hopper, U.S. Navy, is yelling at his brother- also named Alex- in the 2012 movie Battleship.